The Alpine Journey

by Mary Daheim

  “What do you think happened to Audrey?”

  Stina looked puzzled. “How do you mean? Somebody conked her over the head, as far as I know.”

  “I put that badly,” I admitted, my concentration derailed by the crowded surroundings and the constant chatter. “I should have asked why you thought she was killed.”

  Stina set her martini glass down on the bar. She was pretty in an artificial way, with platinum hair that couldn't have been natural, a pouting lower lip that might have been the result of implants, and a voluptuous figure that carried the alleged extra poundage quite capably. “How well did you know Audrey?” she asked, her voice so low that I had to strain to hear her.

  Should I lie? Truth had a way of coming out quickly in small towns. “I knew her only through her aunt, who works for me in Alpine,” I said, and noticed that Stina continued to look puzzled. “Alpine, Washington,” I specified. Sometimes I forget that most of the world has never heard of our little mountain aerie.

  Stina's brow cleared. “Audrey was a real piece of work, in my opinion. She'd dropped out years ago, took off for San Francisco, did the whole scene, got in a lot of trouble, and somehow ended up married to Gordon Imhoff. They moved back here—what? seven, eight years ago?—and opened their shop. Stu and I'd come to Cannon Beach from Eugene not long before that, so what I know of Audrey's previous history is hearsay, but it's consensus.” Stina paused to sip from her drink. She talked with her hands, no mean feat given the crowded confines at the bar. Her long nails were polished a glossy pearl, and diamond studs flashed in each pierced ear.

  “Stu was in property management, vacation rentals mosdy, but we decided to open our own real-estate office about five years ago,” Stina continued, hardly missing a beat. “We added Lincoln City a year later. Gordon worked part-time for us for a while, mosdy handling the seasonal stuff. With three kids, he and Audrey needed the extra money. But last fall he quit. Gordon said Audrey felt he should spend more time with the shop—she couldn't handle it by herself.”

  Stina's hazel eyes had been darting in every direction even as she talked nonstop in her bubbly voice. The vigilance paid off: a middle-aged couple was getting up from a corner table. With an outstretched hand intended to waylay anyone who dared encroach on her designated territory, Stina swiveled her hips between the other customers and claimed the table as our own.

  “Ah,” she said with satisfaction, “now we can be comfortable. Where was I?”

  “Audrey was overwhelmed,” I prompted. “Why?”

  “Good question. The woman didn't do anything. Oh, she puttered around the shop and went looking for collectibles and every once in a while she'd take up with some new passion. But they never lasted.”

  “You mean …?” Tactfully, I let the sentence dangle.

  “Watercolors. Quilting. Soapstone carving. Glassblowing. Audrey thought she was an artist, or at least a craftsman. But she had all the talent of a clamshell.” Stina looked disgusted.

  Having thought that Stina was referring to Audrey's love life, I tried to hide my embarrassment. “She had a husband and three kids. They certainly required time and energy.”

  Stina sniffed indignantly. “What they required and what they got were two different things. As far as I could tell, the kids were pretty much on their own. And Gordon might as well not have been there. In fact—as you may have heard—he wasn't. Not lately. He'd moved out.”

  Something didn't jibe. While the noise level was beginning to ebb, I was still having trouble keeping focused. “You felt sorry for Gordon, I gather.” The words were intended to sound innocent.

  “You bet,” Stina said with feeling. “He was a solid kind of guy who really cared about his family. He cared about Audrey, too. But she got this wild hair to move. She wanted a flower cart.”

  “What?” Now I was sure that my ears, as well as my brain, were playing tricks on me.

  “You know—one of those carts they have outside of buildings or in the lobby with fresh flowers and maybe espresso.” Stina lifted her head and her empty glass, signaling to the bartender. “That was her dream. She'd move to Portland and set up shop—or cart, if you will—in the downtown core. Gordon thought she was nuts. I agreed.”

  A second martini and another bourbon and water arrived. My companion exchanged slick banter with the bartender, nodded at a trio of newcomers, and turned back to me. Despite Stina's persistent eyeballing of the bar, she managed to convey a sense of empathy. It was a trick of her real-estate trade, but it worked. I found myself liking Stina Kane.

  “Audrey wanted to put the house up for sale,” she went on, placing the olive from her martini in an empty ashtray. “Gordon fought it. Not that it mattered to Stu and me—Audrey wouldn't list it with us in any event.”

  “She didn't like you and your husband?” I ventured.

  Stina gave a slight shake of her head. “I don't know and I don't really care. I think she had a buyer in mind, and wanted to sell the place without paying a commission. But as I said, Gordon refused to go along with it.”

  “But he moved out,” I noted. “And now he's gone. Do you have any idea where he could be?”

  “He's scared.” Stina chewed on her full lower lip. “He thinks the police figure he killed Audrey.”

  “Did he?”

  This time she not only shook her head with vehemence but laughed. “Heck, no! Gordon wouldn't hurt a sand flea. He's out wandering the beach somewhere, or holed up in the mountains. There's plenty of empty space in Oregon where a person can get lost. I imagine Gordon's waiting for the sheriff to find the real murderer.”

  I tipped my glass toward my mouth. “And that would be …?”

  “Some drifter. Let's face it, this is the coast. People running away from their troubles and from themselves wander across the country and end up here. The next stop is Asia, or putting a bullet in your head.” The concept didn't seem to perturb Stina; drifters weren't prospective clients.

  “When did you last see Gordon?” I winced; the query smacked of official interrogation.

  Stina didn't seem to notice. “At the funeral, I think. No, I saw him that evening outside the Jaded Eye. He was in his van.”

  “Which the police have never found?”

  Stina shrugged. “I guess not. If they have, the rumor mill didn't grind down this far from Astoria. Heck, it's a big state. Gordon could be anywhere. But I'll bet he's not far.”

  Stina was right. But the way I found out was all wrong—for Gordon, and for me.

  “Well?” Vida demanded, fists on hips. She was in her blue chenille bathrobe, with cream smeared all over her face and her hair done up in big curlers. “Is she or isn't she?”

  The question referred to Stina Kane's relationship with Gordon Imhoff. “I couldn't tell. She seemed very candid in her responses, but didn't give anything away.”

  “Typical.” Vida huffed. “A real-estate agent. They seem so friendly and outgoing, but of course they're hiding all sorts of things, like termites and bedpost beetles and dry rot. You never knew Neeny Doukas when he first started selling real estate in Alpine. Such a glad-hander, and always extolling the virtues of a property while hiding the defects. The first house that Ernest and I looked at had no kitchen, which Neeny had forgotten to mention. Neeny called it the Love Nest. When we asked why there was no place to cook, he said it was because newly weds should always eat out. It was more romantic.”

  I laughed, though secretly wondered if Neeny knew that cooking had never been Vida's strong suit. “Stina wasn't trying to sell me anything,” I said, carefully removing my shoes and emptying the ever-present sand out onto the hearth.

  “Nonsense. Real-estate agents are always selling something, even if it's only themselves.” Her tongue was sharp, but Vida's earlier annoyance with me seemed to have faded. It usually did, given an hour or two.

  “There was something,” I confessed. “It was Stina's general attitude toward Audrey, as if she could do no right. But we've seen the house, and while ther
e's clutter and disarray, the basics looked well tended. None of the kids are in jail, and if they're using drugs, I can't detect it. They've stayed in school, and in fact, Stacie and Molly obviously want to continue here and graduate. Those things speak well for Audrey. And Gordon.”

  Beneath the gooey cream, Vida appeared thoughtful. “Their grief is under wraps, except perhaps for Molly. Or else they've done all their mourning, and their concern now is for their father. I wish the sense of loss showed more. Sometimes they seem quite unaffected, as if their lives had never been so brutally disrupted.”

  “Denial, maybe,” I said.

  “Resentment,” Vida murmured. “I feel they resent both their parents.”

  “Because they were separated?”

  “Because they're gone.” Vida, who wasn't wearing her glasses, gazed at me with eyes that looked as if they were sunken in meringue. “They feel abandoned. As indeed they are.”

  “True,” I allowed as my gaze now wandered toward the hall that led to the kitchen. It was after nine, and we'd eaten dinner early. I was vaguely hungry, but knew that Vida's rations were meager. I started to ask if she'd bought eggs when something clicked in my brain. “Breakfast! That's what I was trying to remember—Derek expected his mother to make breakfast for him before he went to work. Does that suggest a derelict parent?”

  “No,” Vida agreed, “it doesn't. Stina must have a grudge against Audrey. I suspect it has to do with Gordon.”

  I was changing into my robe. “Stacie implied that Gordon and Stina were making love on the beach.”

  “Again”—Vida sighed—“we have to consider our informant's agenda. Did Stacie say that so Stina might become a suspect instead of Gordon?”

  “Probably.” I began wrestling with the sofa, converting it into a bed. “I should probably get under way by nine tomorrow morning.”

  Vida was standing in front of the small mirror, her back to me. “I'll set the alarm for five.” She redid one of the big curlers, but I couldn't detect any improvement. Wisps of hair still stuck out at various angles.

  “Five? Why so early?”

  “We haven't visited the crime scene,” Vida responded, turning to face me. “It would be best to do so before the children get up.”

  I groaned, but didn't argue. After a month it seemed futile for us to inspect the crime scene. But the least I could do was humor Vida for a few more hours. Tomorrow night I'd be home.

  Dawn was just beginning to break behind the hills when Vida and I drove to the Imhoff house. We parked halfway up the drive so as not to wake the family. I'd brought the small flashlight from my rental car and Vida was carrying the high-powered lantern she kept stored in the Buick's trunk. The morning was cool and damp, though only a low line of fog lay across the horizon.

  The tide was out, which made walking the beach easy. The dock, which I had glimpsed from die Imhoff living room the previous day, was old but sturdy. It began at the edge of a short, sloping dune where the grasses grew in tufts and remnants of old campfires could be seen in the dry sand. The dock's weathered boards were only about a yard wide, though they stretched some two hundred feet out into the water. I suspected that they had to be replaced every few years. The pilings, however, were concrete, sunken deep enough to withstand winter storms.

  Vida and I virtually tiptoed single file. Gulls swooped and dived, shrieking their wake-up call to the silent beach. As the sky began to lighten I could see the bulk of Haystack Rock on my right.

  “Nothing,” Vida said as we reached the end of the dock. “Oh, well.”

  “What did you expect? A note from the killer?”

  Vida didn't answer. She was standing on the edge of the dock, staring down into the murky waters. “Why wasn't she drowned?” In the morning calm, the question seemed to come from nowhere.

  I moved closer to Vida, tasting the salt air. “What do you mean?”

  Expelling a deep breath, Vida sank her hands into the pockets of her brown tweed coat. “I misspoke. What I meant was, why didn't the killer throw her in the water? Even now, at low tide, it's fairly deep at the end of the dock. A push, a nudge—that's all it would have taken.” She tapped the aged boards with her foot.

  “The body would have washed up eventually,” I reminded Vida.

  “Not necessarily,” she replied. “Even so, it would still have given the killer time, or confused the issue. Didn't your friend Bill say this was probably a premeditated murder?”

  “That's because the weapon appears to have been something that wouldn't ordinarily be carried out to the dock,” I said, watching the waves crest and disperse, then reappear in the sea's relentless, fascinating ebb and flow. “But Bill could be wrong. The real question is why was anyone else out here with Audrey in the middle of the night? Did she bring someone with her? Was she followed? Had she gotten a cramp and called for help?”

  “The children heard nothing,” Vida said. “I asked them.”

  “Derek wasn't home. He was with Dolores that night. Gordon was living at the Jaded Eye. Stacie and Molly would have been alone.”

  Again, Vida fell silent. When she spoke again, she turned around to look at the house. Only its outline was visible as it lay in the shadow of the foothills.

  “Stacie and Molly were used to having their mother leave during the night,” Vida said slowly. “Her comings and goings wouldn't disturb them. I assume they'd sleep through other noises as well. They were conditioned.”

  I had to agree with Vida. We remained on the dock for a few more minutes, both lost in our own thoughts. The bare boards, the murmur of the sea, the swooping of the gulls all lent a peaceful, timeless air. Yet a woman had died here, probably where we were standing. I shivered, and started back to the beach. Vida followed, but her steps sounded heavy behind me.

  We ate breakfast at the Lazy Susan Café in Coaster Square. When we got back to the motel, I kept my word and called Willamette University. It was just after eight, but someone was on duty. There was no one named Damon listed in the student housing directory.

  “Maybe,” I said on impulse, “it's a first name. He's supposedly a law student.”

  “Oh,” said the voice, which was young and female. “You must mean Jesse Damon. I know him. He lives off campus. Would you like his number?”

  Jesse Damon didn't answer and there was no recording machine. After a dozen rings I hung up. “He's probably off to class or in the library or wherever law students go at the crack of dawn,” I told Vida. “Here's the number if you want to try him later.”

  Vida frowned. “Yes, I'll call this afternoon. I feel he's an important piece of our puzzle.”

  It didn't take me long to pack. But when the moment came to leave Vida, I felt guilty. “We've made some progress,” I said, trying to sound optimistic.

  “No, we haven't.” Vida shot back. “We're completely muddled. I'm going to call Milo as soon as you leave and see if he can get more information out of Clatsop County.”

  “That might help,” I said, and then did something I rarely do because Vida and I aren't casually affectionate: I put my arms around her and gave her a big hug. “Call me as soon as you learn anything important. I honestly do care. But I've got a paper to put out, and you know better than anyone what that means.”

  “Of course.” Vida had gone rigid in my embrace, and when I stepped back, I saw that her face was devoid of expression. “Drive safely,” she added in what sounded like an afterthought.

  I said I would. Vida didn't follow me to the car, but closed the door as soon as I got outside. With a sigh, I trudged down the walk and under the archway that led to the parking lot. The Neon was covered with mist, and I had to dig into my laundry bag to find something I could use as a rag.

  The dashboard digital clock showed eight forty-one. I was ahead of schedule, which pleased me. I might be able to stop in Seattle for a late lunch.

  Patches of morning fog filtered across the road as I wound my way to Highway 101. Hopefully, the fog would disappear as soon as I
left the coast. I slowed down as I neared the arterial; visibility was so poor that I couldn't see the sign.

  But I felt the crash. The Neon seemed to buckle, and I was thrown forward so hard that I felt the seat belt dig into my waist and chest. Wrestling with the wheel, I tried to keep the car on the road. But the moisture on the asphalt sent me into a skid—and a ditch.

  Vaguely, I could hear brakes squeal, car doors slam, and someone shouting. With enormous effort, I flexed my feet, my legs, my hands, my arms. They were all still attached and seemed to be in working order. Next, I turned my head, first to the right, then to the left. The car was on its side. All I could see through the front window was underbrush and leaves and wisps of fog.

  It dawned on me that the engine was still running, so I shut it off with shaking fingers. That was what was wrong—I was shaking all over, and breathing in little gasps. I must have been in shock. Somebody should cover me with a blanket, I thought hazily. Or offer brandy. On the other hand, I was off the road; I could just lie there for a couple of days until my nerves recovered.

  But there was a man peering through the passenger window. In my stunned state, I thought he looked familiar. Milo? No. I wasn't in Alpine. Where was I? Who was he? Why didn't he offer brandy?

  “Are you all right?” the man asked in an anxious voice.

  There is some atavistic quality in females that makes them want to please. Or maybe it was my mother's insistence on good manners in all sorts of dire circumstances. Whatever the reason, I rallied sufficiently.

  “I think I'm just shaken up,” I said. “Can you open the door? I don't think I locked it.”

  But the door was jammed. The car had been hit broadside. “Is there any room for you to get out the other way?” the man asked.

  On closer inspection, I saw that the front end of the Neon had come to rest against an old stump. There were at least six inches between the driver's door and the ground. If I writhed and wriggled, I might get out. But I dreaded making the effort.